Enzo
by backass
Summary: Craig moves in front of me a little, whether it's on purpose or just to get better aim, I'm not sure. It's quiet for a second. Scary-quiet. Then, with an un-earthly shriek, it stumbles around the corner. And it's big.  /ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE, ANYONE?


_06/16/12 - two thirty-four a.m._

At a rest stop two days ago Craig threw this diary at my head and said, "stop talking to me." Which was kind of a dick move, but I thanked him anyway because I like to think I'm a terrific person. He also told me not to call it a 'diary', because he said diaries are "the dumbest fucking thing, Clyde."

I asked Craig what to write in it, but he just sort of shrugged and said, "what do people usually do with journals?"

They write about their lives. Everyone knows that.

Sometimes I swear he thinks I'm stupid or something.

I hadn't touched it 'till tonight, but after the shit that went down today...

Well, I realized my life is pretty fuckin' crazy.

So I guess I should start writing.

_- Donovan_

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><p>"Pull in here," Craig grumbles sleepily, and I jump, not realizing he was awake. Pulling into the parking lot -deserted other than the shells of a few rusted, broken cars- my heart breaks because if Craig's awake it means I don't get to drive anymore. Which, honestly, is like<em> the<em> shittiest thing that's happened to me all week. Even worse than that undead meter-maid trying to have her way with me.

And _that's_ hard to top.

You wanna know why? Craig's car is the most _beautiful_ fucking thing I have _ever_ seen. Ever. A brand-spankin'-new, sleek, shiny-black Enzo Ferrari. Zero to sixty in three-point-four. It's top speed is _two hundred and seventeen_. It's costs more than my _house_.

Hell, it's probably _twice_ as expensive as my house.

There's no way his family (or any family in South Park other than the Blacks) could've afforded it. So I'm assuming he just _took_ it after it's previous owner got their head ripped off (or, you know, something along those lines... could've been a leg or an arm) when this little shin-dig first started. But, when I pointed out it wasn't really_ his _car, and so therefore he should let me drive more often, he punched me.

In my _face_.

The point is, it took him three months to finally let me get behind the wheel. And, honestly, as a male, the opportunity to drive this car is the highlight of any given day, so I try not to get on his bad side by arguing with him when he wants to get back in the driver's seat.

I shimmy out of the car, awkwardly ducking around the butterfly doors. I look over the hood at Craig, who, without a word, he grabs his sawed-off shotgun from underneath the passenger's seat and starts striding across the parking lot. That's how he usually does things; quietly.

The glass automatic doors are smashed, shards sticking out from the sides at awkward, foreboding angles. If it's broken that means someone (or something, more importantly) has been here before us. Craig slides through the messy gap easily and gracefully. Peering through the doors I watch him head to the cash register closest to the doors and start rummaging around carelessly, presumably looking for cigarettes.

I clear my throat and call out, "You ever get nervous doin' this?" I awkwardly trip through the gap, snagging my arm on a shard of glass. Craig turns around, pale eyes watching intently as a fairly wide red streak slides down my skin. He watches it trail off my knuckles, down my fingers and drip onto the white tiled floor. Smirking, he glances over his shoulder to the ransacked store's interior. Racks and shelves are tipped over, their contents broken and thrown around violently. No human makes that much of a mess. There's a large brown stain on the tiles, with dragging marks disappearing down an aisle.

Unless, I rethink, they're being chased down.

Craig looks back at me and smiles darkly as the metallic scent of my blood fills the air.

"No," He finally answers as a loud, inhuman snorting sound comes from down one of the mostly intact aisles. He cocks his gun, "do _you_?"

The loud, half-groan, half-scream that nearly completely drowns out Craig's words reminds me that with my open wound I probably smell like a fucking _buffet_ to a hungry zombie right now, and I'm _very_ unarmed.

Something lumbers down one of the aisles, throwing things out of it's way and Craig, turning to face whatever's coming, moves in front of me a little, whether it's on purpose or just to get better aim, I'm not sure. Still, I appreciate it.

It's quiet for a second. _Scary _quiet. Then, with an un-earthly shriek, it stumbles around the corner.

And it is fucking _big_.

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><p><strong>Not really sure where I was even going with this... But, i<strong>**f I make it multi-chaptered, each chapter will start with a journal entry, then switch to telling the events of the day through either Clyde or Craig's point of view, depending on who's entry it was.**

**Might just be a bit of romance on the side of all the zombie slaughtering, too.**

**...eh, we'll see.**

**REVIEW NOW, SLUTS.**

**- backass.**


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